


M.N.H

by OrsFri



Series: this song reminds me of you, she says [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 19:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10367709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: "He’s lying in the dark, listening to Arctic Monkeys of all things, like some pretentious college kid with burning heartache."RusPru drabble, about a confession at (almost) midnight.





	

He's lying in the dark, listening to  _Arctic Monkeys_ of all things, like some pretentious college kid with burning heartache. His hands itch for a cigarette, or a bottle of cheap spirits, or, or a pen, and he can finally spit out the words like smoke for the newest novel he has promised a few months back.

 _What's next,_ he wonders to himself, _will it be The Smiths now? Past and Future Me are embarrassed of you, Present Me._

He sees his phone lights up from the peripheral of his vision, and reaches an arm out to grab it. After much fumbling he manages to knock it off the coffee table, finally rolling off the couch and onto the floor to check his phone.

The screen reads:  _23:38,_ and,  _1 New Message._

 _Well,_ he thinks, and decides that he's fed up with moping. He checks the message.

Of course it's Gilbert. Of course.

He doesn't bother reading the message, calling Gilbert immediately.

"You know," he begins the moment Gilbert picks up, "the only way this can be more pathetic is if I'm jerking off right now."

There's a long silence before Gilbert finally speaks. "What the fuck?"

"I'm not drunk," Ivan assures. "But I do feel like a character in one of those depressing post-war novels that lament the futility of life."

"Existentialism?"

"More like absurdism, but they're close cousins." He climbs back onto the couch, letting his knees hook over the armrest. "Sex, alcohol, nihilism, fatalism - and maybe pining, add that in."

Gilbert snorts. "The background music helps."

"Definitely." Alex Turner croons about _wanna be yours_ by transforming into inanimate objects, and nope, Ivan doesn't need that right there. Ivan doesn't need  _Gilbert_ to hear that. He clears his throat. "So, you texted me?"

Gilbert falls quiet again. It's rather uncharacteristic; Gilbert tends to be boisterous, and always, _always_ talking.

"Gilbert?"

"I read your manuscript," Gilbert interrupts hurriedly. There's another pause; he continues, "It's incomplete. There're only three chapters."

"I know. I couldn't finish it."

"There's not even a climax."

"I know."

Gilbert tries to speak, but his voice cracks. Ivan can hear the sound of Gilbert reaching for his mug and gulping down something - probably coffee, if he's still working at this hour. There's the sound of the phone being moved around, the tell-tale static, and Ivan can almost see Gilbert wetting his lips as he sets the coffee back down. "So, is there something you want to tell me?"

Ivan doesn't hesitate. "Perhaps," he says. He hasn't tried to dilute the references, nor the raw emotions inherent in his latest writing. Everything is explicit - almost  _pornographic,_ the way he bares it all and lay it out under Gilbert's eyes.

"I... I don't like to assume these kind of things."

He knows. "I know," Ivan says, "me too." He knows that part of Gilbert too, the part that takes everything too flippantly until it comes to  _emotions_ and  _family,_ and everything inbetween.

Alex Turner is now singing about  _fools on parade, fools on parade,_ in a manner almost ironic, and Gilbert sounds choked when he replies, "I don't know what you want me to say."

Ivan thinks about the tickets for the motor show he has tucked in his wallet, even though Ivan doesn't give a damn about cars. He thinks about Gilbert mentioning dropping by, possibly, to take a look, if they manage to fit it into the itinerary of Ivan's tour; back before they have to cancel anyway when Ivan's brain decides to take a plunge and everything has to be put on hold again.

"What do you think the climax should be?" Ivan asks. He stares at the kitchen door, the way everything blurs without his glasses, and tells himself to ignore the way his memory of Gilbert standing at that very corner overlaps with reality. "I thought about it for a long time. I thought about it when I first realised. I thought about it when I was drunk off my ass." Gilbert snickers, and huh, Ivan really doesn't curse a lot, does he? "I thought about it when I was on my meds and grounded in reality - or rational enough to discern what is and is not reality. And... and I still don't know how it will turn out, but I thought that you ought to know, at least."

"And so you sent in an incomplete manuscript?"

"And so I did."

"Wow," says Gilbert, rather breathlessly, "wow. I don't know." He starts laughing. It's almost desperate, almost hysterical. "Shit, no one's ever confessed like this to me before. I - No one's ever  _confessed_ to me before."

The playlist reaches its end and stops. Ivan stops it before it can start again. The silence is almost deafening now, pressing heavily on his ear drums with non-existent yet equally forceful feeling of reverberation. Then, quietly, Ivan sighs. "I'm not asking you to give me an answer. I just thought that you should know."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," says Ivan, "truly. I was not expecting anything."

The sound of movement again, and Gilbert inhales sharply. "Shit, I'm _so sorry._ "

"It's fine," Ivan repeats, because he has no idea what else to say. When the silence drags on too long, Ivan hangs up and dangles his arm from the couch, letting the phone drop the final few centimetres to the floor.

The memory-Gilbert shifts from his position by the door and walks into the kitchen. Ivan is almost tempted to follow him, but he's too tired to figure out his own subconscious. He settles for an arm over his eyes instead. The quiet hums in his ears, and if he strains hard enough, he can hear the steady drumbeats of the next tune start up again.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like everyone to know that the working title was AM Humbug and that I wrote the entire thing listening to Arctic Monkeys albums because life these days is a sad sad thing.


End file.
